


Grief and Relief

by posingasme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Sam Winchester, Angry Sex, Bottom Castiel, Canonical Character Death, Castiel Gives Oral Sex, Coda, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, Grieving Castiel, Grieving Sam, Guilty Castiel, Guilty Sam, M/M, Post-Season/Series 09 Finale, Rough Oral Sex, Spoilers, Survivor Guilt, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 12:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3326885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/posingasme/pseuds/posingasme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is dead. Metatron is in prison. The only people left for Sam and Castiel to be angry with are Sam and Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grief and Relief

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for less than healthy sexual relations. All is consensual but this is not my usual brand of gentle or felicitous lovemaking.

He knew Sam was angry. Sam was always angry. That was part of why they were in the mess they were in. He knew Sam would be sorry in the coming days, that he would be ready to beg forgiveness from anyone who would listen, especially him. But he was angry now.

Castiel was not going to pretend it did not hurt him at his deepest, however. He would let Sam rage, let him release his pent up fury and lash out. Part of Castiel wanted that, to be punished for his part in what had happened to Dean. But it wasn't about Castiel or his guilt.

It was Sam. Sam knew that of the two of them, he was truly the one who had pushed Dean away. Castiel had gone looking to Dean for mercy, for sanctuary, after the Great Fall. He had found no quarter in that cold bunker, and that was because of Sam. Not that it was Sam's fault; far from it. But Dean had been protecting the angel who was hiding in Sam's skin, and he had cast their original guardian to the wind.

Castiel should not have been surprised by that turn of events, but he had been. Shocked, and so, so hurt.

But it was for Sam. He knew that now. And he could forgive anything Dean did for Sam. Everything Dean did was ultimately for Sam.

And Sam had pushed him away.

When he had gotten Sam's message, he had been finishing business with Hannah, storing the Scribe of God securely in his cell. He had not wanted to believe Metatron's words, but Sam confirmed it. Dean was dead. An angel's killing blade had slid into his chest, and Sam had felt his brother's life pour out in his arms.

Castiel watched Sam's eyes now, saw the fury flashing unbridled in those dark hazel orbs. He was angry. He blamed himself, but he was trying to blame Castiel.

The man's large hands were on him, his strength shoving him back against the wall. Castiel could have easily sent Sam stumbling across the room, but he allowed the human to crush him between his heavy body and the unforgiving wall.

When Sam's mouth crashed into his, there was no joy in it. Sam tasted like anger and salt, but Castiel drank it in all the same. It was what Sam could give him, so he took it and was grateful for it.

The powerful hands were ripping into his clothing, and he closed his eyes briefly. He missed Sam's soft caresses, his tender embrace, his considerate touch. But he loved this too, the punishing way the man tore his nakedness out of the fabric rather than sought it carefully. Sam's normally cautious search for consent was a glare and a bark, full of pain and sounding more like an accusation than anything else.

"Leave now if this isn't what you want."

Castiel cringed at the severity of the command. "You are always what I want," he confirmed quietly.

Sam did not say another word. He had worked Castiel's clothing off, and now he swung him around and shoved him onto the bed.

His vessel's heart was pounding. Sam had never been anything but gentle. He wondered frantically about the implications of allowing this type of intimacy, what it meant for their future together. If there even was a future together. But if this was the last time he would feel Sam's body, he would not spend it in worry, he promised himself. He would allow himself to enjoy the way Sam was taking control of him. Even if anger was all Sam had left, the only thing he could still feel, Castiel wanted it. Sam would not hurt him. He knew that in the deepest parts of his heart. But Sam was angry, and he was desperate, and he needed to touch Castiel and be touched.

Sam needed to be reminded that they were alive. Even if Dean was lying two rooms away never to rise again, Sam and Castiel were still alive. Sam needed to feel that. Castiel intended to give him that.

But he would not pretend it didn't hurt that there was bitterness and blame in their lovemaking that had never been there before.

Castiel's bare skin registered the cold, but Sam's hands were feverish. He looked up at the man whose eyes were swollen and red, wild with fury. Castiel was not the angel he had once been, but his waning stolen Grace was resonating with the human wrath that was all around him. He let it wash through him, overwhelm his senses.

It had only been since the night he had attempted to extract the last of Gadreel's Grace that he and Sam had explored the boundaries of their friendship. Too little time had passed since then, and most of it spent separated. And now this. It was a parody of their previous touches, a comedy of errors, as Metatron's playwrights would say, a satire at best. But Castiel wanted Sam's passion, even if it was forever scarred by guilt and blame.

Sam was touching him now, moving him roughly into a position to accept the human's thrust, the brunt of his madness. Before, Castiel had lead them, had been the one to guide their embraces. But now he chose to lower his head to his chin and wait in silent anticipation for Sam's heat to push into him from behind.

But the touch stopped abruptly, and he opened his eyes to find Sam standing before him, glowering down at him while holding himself. He grabbed Castiel by the back of the neck, and tugged him forward.

Castiel knew what was expected. He had done this for Sam only once before, but his lips parted as if they had played this part a thousand times. Sam slid himself into Castiel's pink mouth with a groan. The angel found it redundant to move on his own, since Sam immediately began thrusting into him. He closed his eyes tightly, and he moaned in desperate appreciation of Sam's taste, and the way his lips nearly split in their effort to accommodate him. He held onto Sam's flesh, swallowed around it, molding his tongue about it.

The angel could not dull the pain or the anger, but he would bring the man pleasure if it was his own dying act. If the pleasure was stained with grief, so be it.

When Sam pulled away from his mouth, it was without warning, and Castiel felt a moment of hollow want, before he felt the man working his way behind him. Sam used the fluid from Castiel's mouth as well as his own sticky slick to polish himself and the opening which would receive him. A needy moan arched out of Castiel as he commanded his body to wait for Sam to move first.

At last, he felt Sam pressing against him, felt the weight and hardness of him as he shoved past Castiel's muscles without mercy.

The angel sucked in his breath, dropping his mouth wide, and he could feel his body pulling the man into him deeper, closing tightly over him, swallowing everything that was Sam. And then Sam was moving, a few slow draws, then slamming into him, piercing his vessel's every soft nerve.

Sam was merciless. It might have reminded Castiel of his time without a soul if he were able to think of such things. Instead, he allowed Sam to press him hard into the mattress. Waves of relief flowed through him. He felt himself accepting Sam's invasion like a fulfillment of prophecy, a promise delivered, even as he squeezed his eyes shut against it. With every movement the human made, another crash descended upon him, until he was utterly unable to hold himself up another moment. They fell flat onto the bed as one body, and the rhythm never stuttered.

He could taste his human, held onto that sensation as the man relentlessly drove into him. Somehow, Sam was touching every part of him, and he was jealously grateful that Jimmy Novak had been reaped to Heaven years ago. This was Castiel's, only Castiel's. The beautiful pain and the terrible pleasure, it was all his, and the desperate want of it all too. It would never be enough, not so long as it was Sam, but it was his.

The growls coming from the man's throat were unlike anything Castiel had ever heard before. But he recognized them as though they were his native tongue. Sam was close to release, close to the relief Castiel would bring him, in a way his Grace never could.

"Sam," he breathed, eyes fluttering open and closed at random. "Sam, I'm so sorry."

It was the catalyst his wrath wanted. Sam began to tremble, and at last he surged into Castiel, touched deeper than ever before, and sent shockwaves through the whole vessel. He was spilling out onto the bed just as Sam filled every part of him, and his body milked Sam's, determined to take what was for him, to swallow up everything Sam fed him even as part of him leaked out forever.

They lay there, shaking and breathing, feeling two bodies recovering from something neither heart ever would.

When Sam began to sob, Castiel turned to take him in his strong, once-infinite arms without a word, and kissed away every babbled, salty apology his human gave him.


End file.
